Sunday morning, near the residences of the lakeside Tubbians at Silver Lake.

"Of course I am, Gregory. I used to live here, mmph, and there is next to nowhere to house the carriage and horse. I shall be perfectly fine, hm hm, to stay here for a time. Either I shall make the walk back on my own, mmph, or I will have someone here arrange for transportation."

To that, the butler nods and disembarks from the front of the carriage. Around the side he steps, opening the door and moving to help Aloisius Treadwell down from within. The Tubbian leader and local toymaker and town councilor comes shuffling down and out onto the grass; he is dressed for official religious business in his yellow regalia, from miter and staff to alb, robe, sash, and boots.

"I will be well, mmph! This should be pleasant enough!" notes the mountainous Treadwell, looking out over the nearby Silver Lake.

The carriage door closes again, and back into the front the butler climbs.

"Very well, m'lord. I trust your word in this."

With that said, reins snap, and carriage rolls lazily on. Treadwell is here to visit these other Tubbians for a variety of reasons: he wishes to see their practices on hand, he wishes to lead them in a Sunday's sermon and feast, and he wishes to see what he can learn about their physical conditions. Hokwing had mentioned people being sick and dying. Granted, the lizard fellow had no love for Treadwell, but why ought he lie about such things?

Across the grass Treadwell strolls, not quite as stooped as normal thanks to the aid of his ceremonial staff instead of his usual walking cane, his tomato of a nose taking in the scents and breezes of a cool morning. To the foremost cottage, the one he used to live in, he goes, first. There are others immediately surrounding, of course--part of a small community for this group of believers--but this one is where things ought to begin. Up goes his right, yellow-gloved hand for a knockity-knock-knock at the door. He still has the key to this building, as he does for many in town that the government holds the deeds for, but why not be polite?

A merry pipe of, "Hullooooo?" squeaks out from the elder fellow, and there he waits, gently rocking on those flat, fat feet.

"Looks like a table to me. Do you think it could hold up someone as bulbous as Treadwell?" -- Dr. Brennan, Myrken Wood Rememdium Edificium